I have three brothers. And one sister. My oldest brother has always been like a rock star to me: dazzling and brilliant and heart-breakingly beautiful, but always just out of reach, no matter how close I got. My second oldest brother, the middle child, has been like a friendly but distant cousin for most of my life. He is funny and charming and I’ve always wished I knew him better, but our paths have just not intersected much.

And then there’s my sweet baby brother. Okay, technically, he’s only 18 months younger than me. Technically, our mother dressed us in hand-me-downs from our older cousins – who were twins. Technically, I was only one grade level above him for most of our school years. He was, to use the technical term, my absolute best friend growing up. Technically, thanks to the chaos and confusion involved in transferring from the British school system back into the Canadian system we actually spent the last two years of high school not only in the same year, but in the same [i]classes[/i]. All technicalities aside, he has always been summed up in my heart of hearts as my sweet baby brother.

When I looked up from my Biblical Archaeology Review to see him bouncing into the Starbucks today, duck-fuzz morning hair, kind blue eyes, sunny smile and all, the first thought I had was, “Sweet baby brother!”. Our plan had been to go get lunch, but we sat and talked like we’ve always, always been able to, laughing and teasing until he leaned forward, took my hands and said, very matter-of-fact-ly, “This chair is hurting my bum.” He makes me laugh like no one else.

We grabbed lunch and headed back to his apartment with the printer I scored for him (it came for just twenty bucks with the notebook computer Ishi bought for school just a couple weeks ago). He (my brother) has just started a course in AutoCAD and really needed one, so that worked out beautifully.

I wish I could adequately express what it does for my soul to just be able to hang out with him. To watch movies from the 80s with running commentary that only we really understand and crack up over. Between us, we spin the threads of childhood memories and our stories. Those pixie-stick, GI Joe, bike-riding days are so close when we’re together like that.

He showed me his AutoCAD homework, his impossibly cool diagrams of three-dimensional objects and how he figured out what he was doing wrong in a math question that took up half a page (!), while my chest just about puffed out like a proud little mama bird’s. Everything he does impresses me; his tenacity in problem-solving and his commitment to seeing things through inspire me and make me want to work on my own neglected dreams and projects.

He dozed off in front of Family Guy and The Simpsons (he works nights) while I set up and installed his new printer. The spring rain spattered outside the open balcony door and scented the air with dusky blue and bright green. As I half-listened to Stewie’s ranting on the TV and the deep, even breathing of my brother, I worked on updating all the software I’d installed for him last time I was there. The day slid past without moving, the saturated sky deepened and darkened unnoticed, and I felt steeped in peace.

No, he’s not a baby. He’s fought tremendous battles and he’s got quite a road in front of him. Few get to see him relaxed and unguarded and many would argue that he often sounds far from sweet. But they don’t see what I see. What I will always see.

My sweet baby brother.